


Evergreen

by ackermom



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post NHL, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 10:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: Kent tries to catch his breath. “What is this, Jack?”“It’s us,” Jack says. “It’s always been us.”Kent looks at him, the man he’s become, the boy he’s always been. Then he grabs him by the collar of his shirt and kisses him.





	Evergreen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palateens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/gifts).



> post-nhl friends to lovers through the holiday magic of a [christmas wrapping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BIBvul7_jg) retelling as kent comes to terms with his imminent retirement. my swawesome santa gift for [palateens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens). hope you enjoy!

Jack gets them a table in the back. 

Thank God, because Kent's fucking tired and didn't really want to come out tonight, not when he's got to leave early for a roadie tomorrow. But Jack insisted they get together while they're on the same coast, so here he is, trudging into the dimly light restaurant. A few faces at the bar light up on their entrance, and while a bachelor party descends on Jack, asking for photos and signatures, Kent manages to secure a much needed gin and tonic. 

He takes a dozen selfies with some seriously handsy middle-aged women on vacation before Jack finally pulls them away, and Kent can breathe again.

"Good game last night," he says when they sit down. His glass is nearly empty already, and he slides it onto the table, a signal. "Never knew you had such a fan club in Vegas."

Jack waves to flag down a server. "Me neither. I think they were just happy to see the Kings lose."

Kent snorts. "We all were."

Jack orders for them: another round for Kent and a whiskey for Jack. Top shelf, neat. Kent doesn't know when he became such a connoisseur. 

The server returns promptly with their drinks, and they spend a few minutes hashing out small talk over last night's game (Boston @ Los Angeles, 3 to 2, Jack bringing home the winning shot in the last five minutes). Then the conversation fades out, and Kent wonders what they're really doing here. 

"So," he says.

Jack glances across the table at him. "Yeah?"

"How's your," Kent asks, then trails off, waving a hand nonchalantly.

Jack raises an eyebrow. "My what?"

He was hoping Jack would fill him in on that. They've been through all this shit together, the two of them, coast to coast; but it's been a while since they've met up like this and Kent can't remember what Jack's deal is. Years ago, there was a boyfriend, a fiancee, then just the dog, then a few girlfriends here and there, then the dog again, and then for some reason Kent spent a long time thinking Jack had kids.

He'd asked about the kids once after they'd played each other in Boston, and unfortunately for Kent, Alexei Mashkov had driven up that evening just to laugh in his face and elucidate for everyone in the room that no, Jack does not have any kids, but  _if that was pick-up line, Kenny, you try better next time, yes?_

He did not give Mashkov permission to call him Kenny. That particular evening ended with a public apology on Twitter.

"You know," Kent says, reaching for his drink to fill the silence. "Your whatever."

"Lucy's getting older," is all Jack says.

Kent tries really hard to remember if that's the name of Jack's dog, because he sincerely hopes that's not the way Jack talks about his girlfriend.

Jack smirks at him. "Lucy's my dog."

"Right," Kent exclaims. "Say hi to her for me."

"Kent Parson, willingly engaging with a dog? Unbelievable."

"I asked you to say hi to her, not to bring her over and let her rub her tongue all over my face."

Jack just gives him a look, and Kent is very aware that he has seen Kent let many, many cats rub their sandpaper tongues all over his face. Kaboodle, particularly, has a thing for ears.

"Well," Kent sighs. "Now that we've caught up..."

"I want to talk, actually," Jack says.

Kent reaches for his drink to begin chugging it, because that's never a good thing to hear, especially not from Jack Zimmermann.

He furrows his brow the next minute, because a weird look crosses Jack's face then, one that Kent's not sure he's ever seen. Jack leans in across the table, like he's about to divulge some breaking news to Kent and he can't risk anyone else overhearing. Oh, fuck, he's about to divulge some breaking news, isn't he?"

"I'm retiring," Jack says softly, "at the end of the season."

Kent blinks. "Oh, shit." 

It's not- well, he could say it's not a surprise, because Jack's getting older, they're both getting older, and the league is being pumped full of hearty young Canadians with ice in their veins, who can skate faster, play longer, captain better. It wouldn't be a surprise for anyone their age to retire. Kent's the last one left from his draft year.

It's not not a surprise though, because this is Jack Fucking Zimmermann, who has been sucking hockey's dick since he was born. Jack Zimmermann, who has captained two Cup winning teams in his career and done so much more for the league than that. Jack Zimmermann, who could not possibly be replaced and who is retiring in just a few months.

"Well, shit," Kent says, leaning back in his seat. He throws an arm over the back of the booth and holds his drink in his lap. "When?"

"After playoffs," Jack says. He swirls his whiskey idly; it glints gold beneath the low lighting, and Kent watches it flow as Jack continues to talk. "Unless we make it to the finals, but- we won't, not this year. So, once our season's over, that's it."

Kent glances at his face. "Why now?"

Jack just shrugs, then looks up and meets Kent's eyes. "It's time. I'm not getting any younger, or any healthier. My doctor's predicting knee surgery in the next year or so, and I'd like to have some time to myself before then. Try some new things. Spend some more time with Lucy before she gets too old."

Kent realizes that Jack is nearing forty and still single, still childless. He's always pictured Jack as a family man, having a big wedding and teaching toddlers to skate. Maybe that was just Kent's romantic teenage fantasy, but he can see it now, in Jack's eyes: loneliness.

"Well," he says after a moment. "I'll see you on the other side, I guess."

Jack looks at him. "Have you thought about it?"

Being almost forty and still fucking alone?

"Retiring," Jack continues. "We're the same age, so..."

"No," Kent says instantly, setting his glass on the table. "I mean, I've thought about it. Everyone thinks about it. But.."

"But you're not planning on retiring anytime soon."

"I'm planning on playing for as long as possible," Kent says firmly. 

"You were out for half of last season."

"So?"

"You threw out your back."

"It was a stress fracture, you asshole. I didn't just stand up too hard and break my fucking back."

"Sorry," Jack says, smirking, and Kent hates that he's smirking too. "I just thought you might be thinking about taking the leap.

"I'm not," Kent says, even though he is, a little bit. He's old. His body hurts all the damn time. But- he's not ready yet. "Not for a few more years."

Jack gives him a smile across the table. "Good luck, then. I'll see you out there."

He pays the bill before Kent can say anything, and when they say anything as Jack leaves for his redeye flight back to Boston, he pulls Kent into a hug. It's unexpected, but familiar. Kent holds onto him for a moment; then Jack is gone, and Kent stands alone on a dark sidewalk in Las Vegas, suddenly feeling very, very lonely.

 

\---

 

Kent came out years ago, riding the tail of Jack's rainbow wave as quietly as he could. The media picked him up anyways, and he remained SportsCenter's favorite icebreaker until the lockout three years later.

"Kent Parson," one commentator had joked on Twitter. "Captain of the flashiest team in the NHL, known fan of Britney Spears, Instagram, and unicorn frappucinos- shouldn't we have known?"

He doesn't know what the fuck liking Instagram has to do with him being gay, but Britney herself came to his defense on that one, so Kent hasn't stayed mad. 

There were a few other things said about him (about him and Jack, with reprinted photos from their days in the Q, which for some reason was still news to anyone), and though Kent was never particularly fond of the spotlight they shone on him, he was relieved to find that it was just a spotlight and not the blast of hellfire he was expecting. 

It's been years since those days.

It's actually been many, many years.

Things have changed since then. He and Jack aren't the only ones out, not anymore, though most players still like to keep their personal lives quiet. It's hard, after all, being the face of attention, and after years as Vegas' captain, years as the Aces' champion, Kent Parson knows that far too well.

So, it's been a long fucking time since he rolled his eyes and just came out, since his mom cried on the phone and asked if she'd at least get grand-cats (because, as everyone knows, gay people are incapable of having children), since having a famous gay brother seriously boosted Rebecca's street cred in the Chicago improv scene, and it's been almost as long since he's had a serious relationship. Or even just a relationship. He doesn't know if he could call Zero serious.

"Your name is what?" Kent had yelled over the music.

"Zero," he'd yelled back. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"That's a stupid fucking name," Kent had said, then thrown down an indecipherable number of bills and gotten wasted with a hot stranger.

Zero had lived up to his name. They'd had good sex, at first, but that was the only thing ever going for them; so when that started to get boring, they were over. Kent had known they weren't long-term material. It was still a shame, he'd thought when Zero left his apartment for the last time, that Kent was going to spend that Christmas alone.

He's spent most Christmases alone since then, and most other nights too. The thrill of hookups wore off in his mid-twenties. He'd had a casual thing with Swoops for a while, but then there'd been a wife and a kid and a trade. And after he'd failed with Zero, he hadn't been too eager to try again.

He'd had Kit, at least. And when she was in her golden years, the fur on her brow getting thinner everyday, he'd picked up Kaboodle from the shelter: a lively little runt to give Kit a run for her money. It's been just the two of them since Kit died. Kaboodle's decent company on a Saturday night, at least when he's not trying to destroy everything Kent owns.

Still.

Kent's been alone for a while. And Jack's right- they're getting older. He's getting older. He knows that he's close to retirement, and he's been coming to terms with that for a while. It's just hard to say out loud.

He doesn't know what he'll do, where he'll go, who he'll be.

He braces himself for the end of the season and the inevitable slurry of questions that will come his way, asking how much longer he'll keep playing, if he's trying to break a record, if he's afraid to leave the Aces because he doesn't think they can do it without him.

The Aces lose in the first round of playoffs. The Bruins lose next, and Jack Zimmermann retires from hockey. 

 

\---

 

Kent doesn't RSVP. At first, he doesn't even know if he's going to show up- to bother flying all the way out to Boston just to hear everyone sob over what a difference Jack has made in hockey, what a brave hero he's been and whatever. 

Then Mashkov tags him in a photo on Twitter, one taken a decade ago after a game in Providence, where he and Jack and Alexei all look so young. And Kent thinks, well, maybe he should show up for old times' sakes, if it's not too inconvenient.

Then he ends up in New York for Rebecca's off-Broadway debut in the chorus line of a musical he's never heard of, and he thinks, alright, fine, he'll go.

Kent's been to Jack's Boston house only once before, but it's easy enough to spot from the street. It's the one with all the expensive cars out front, the burly NHL players, old and new, streaming into the backyard to congratulate Jack on finally reaching the end. An aging golden retriever lays guard by the gate. Kent greets her with a reluctant pat on the head.

He should have read the invitation, it turns out, because he shows up like a dumbass with a lukewarm bottle of wine. To a barbecue. In June.

Kent abandons the bottle at the drink table ("who brought cabernet to a cookout?" he says loudly), tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and mills through the crowd, searching idly for Jack.

"Parson!" someone shouts, clapping him on the back. Kent squints at the vaguely familiar face. A Falconer? "You made it all the way out here, huh?"

"Yeah," Kent says. "Couldn't miss this."

"The old man's around here somewhere," the guy says, starting back into the crowd. "Don't let him get away from you all night, alright?"

"Sure," Kent says, then immediately goes back to get a drink, because everyone really needs to cool it with these ageist comments. He's the same age as Jack. Next year, this could be him.

He doesn't want to think about that.

He works his way through familiar faces and a few craft beers, feeling decidedly more out of place with every conversation he lingers near. He knows most of these players, current and retired, but they're not his players, his circle. He's not Kent here, not Parse. He's Kent Parson, hey, let's get a picture, and by the time he finally finds Jack entertaining a cluster of young WAGs with Lucy's puppy photos, Kent has downed more alcohol than is normally acceptable to consume on a Saturday afternoon.

Then again, it's a party. Jack's definitely had a few.

"You made it," Jack exclaims when Kent bumps into him, pushing himself into the circle. He folds an arm around Kent's shoulders and gestures at the women with his beer. "Ladies, you know Kent Parson?"

"Kent, so great to meet you," one of them says. "You flew in just for this?"

"Nah," Kent says. "Just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Jack's fingers are hanging dangerously close to his collarbone. Kent can feel his face flushing, but that's just the heat. Or the alcohol. Or the way Jack's hand trails down his back and stays there for a second before he turns to leave.

"Sorry, Kenny," Jack tells him. "I know we haven't gotten to talk recently, but I think I hear my college team, I should go say hi-"

"Oh," Kent says. Jack's touch lingers on him. "Yeah, tell 'em hi for me."

"So, Kenny," one of the girlfriends says. "What's it like-"

"I have to go too," Kent says suddenly, watching Jack disappear into the crowd. He remembers his manners and gives his best saccharine smile. "Gotta pay my respects to the folks." 

Bob's nowhere to be seen when Kent retreats to the shade of the patio, but he can be heard over the noise. He's as loud as ever, a booming laugh that echoes through the party. He appears for a split second as he moves through the crowd. Kent catches a glimpse of his silver hair and suddenly needs to sit down.

Alicia lets her grays show through, but she manages to make it look purposeful. When she finds Kent sulking in the corner, she plops down next to him, swirling something strong in her cup.

"I thought I'd find you here," she says, glancing at him. "Pouting, are we?"

"I'm not pouting," Kent scoffs. 

"Someone not giving you enough attention?"

He scowls when she smirks at him. She always knew too much about him and Jack. He guesses it was responsible parenting to give their horny teenager a box of condoms, but did she really have to pass them across the dinner table to a furiously mortified Jack who then refused to have sex under his parents’ roof ever again?

"Oh, stop it," Alicia says. She nudges him with her elbow. "I'm just teasing you, Kent."  

 "Aren't you disappointed?" Kent asks, slouching in his seat. His hands hang over the side of his chair, beer bottle swinging loosely in his grasp.

Alicia looks at him. "Why would we be disappointed?"

Kent stares across the yard at Jack. "You want grandkids, don't you?"

She snorts. "He's not dying, Kent. He's not even forty."

"That's pretty fucking old." 

"Yeah? Try seventy."

Kent jerks back in his chair, glancing at her. "You're not seventy."

She winks back. "Sixty-nine."

"Christ."

"And my parents thought I was waiting a long time to have kids," Alicia says. She pauses to take a sip of her drink. "You're right, though. Jack's going to be fucking old when his kids go to college. All the better to embarrass them, I guess."

"So you think he's still gonna do it," Kent says.

"Have kids?"

"I mean, the whole thing," Kent says. He gestures vaguely into the yard. He's aiming for Jack, but he waves his hand broadly, frowning. "You know, first comes love, then comes marriage, then babies and shit. You think he'll find that?"

He glances across at Alicia when she doesn't answer immediately. She's not quiet often, even less so around Kent, who she always has a word for. Sometimes a shouted word. Sometimes a tirade.

But she pauses before she responds, and when she does, it's softly.

"He wants that," Alicia admits. 

Kent takes a sip of his beer, then sets the bottle down in the grass. "When's the last time he saw somebody?"

"There was someone a while ago," Alicia sighs. "A graphic designer, I think, but they only went out a few times. I never met him. I don't think they even slept together."

He glances at her. "How do you know?"

Alicia takes a drink. "Jack's never been subtle."

Kent snorts.

She nudges him again. "Neither have you."

"In our defense, we had enough bruises that we thought you wouldn't notice our hickeys."

"You have more hickeys than bruises. If you two had spent more time catching your breath and less time hooking up in the backseat of my car, maybe you'd have noticed that we all knew."

Kent rubs his forehead. "Thanks."

"Do you want that?" 

He looks at her. "What, kids?"

"Yeah."

"I mean..."

Alicia leans back in her seat. "I never wanted kids."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"What happened?" 

"I had one," Alicia says. She stares at Jack, talking to his father at the grill, laughing together. A smile hangs on her lips. "It's different when they're your own, you know." 

Kent follows her gaze. "Huh."

"I hate other people's kids, though. Snot-nosed shits. My son is perfect and everyone else's can eat dirt."

She leaves him be after that, and Kent's tipsy enough, tired enough, to sit there for the rest of the night, using his resting bitch face to ward off anymore awkward conversations. He feels restless, like he doesn't belong. He doesn't, really; he and Jack haven't played together since they were kids, and they barely play each other once a year now. Or, then.

 

\---

 

Kent's got armfuls of babies when his phone starts ringing. He ignores it, because he's literally got armfuls of babies; but then his phone rings again and he stretches to see that it's Jack calling him, twice in a row now. Mara and Carey start gurgling at him, like they can tell his heart just skipped a beat.

"Hey," Kent shouts from his armchair. "Can you parent your kids for a sec?"

Tracy appears around the corner a moment later, glowering. There's a smear of red icing on her cheek that she wipes off and eats as she towers over Kent.

"You said you'd hold them," she exclaims.

"I'm getting an important call."

She cranes her neck- no, please, he had enough of this as a teenager- and a wicked smirk splits over her face when she recognizes the name flashing on the screen.

"Uh-huh," Tracy says, reaching down to scoop Mara into one arm. "That seems super important."

Kent adjusts the other baby against his shoulder. "It might be."

"You're not just taking a call from your high school boyfriend instead of holding your nieces like you said you would five minutes ago."

"It's not my fault you've got too many damn kids."

"I've only got three!"

"Multiples are genetic and you know that, so this kind of sounds like a personal problem."

Tracy huffs. "Well, I can't hold both of them. I'm finishing Sean's cake."

"Fine," Kent exclaims, snatching his phone off the coffee table. It's already stopped ringing, but he calls back instantly. "I'll hold this one. I'll just be out on the patio, yeah?"

"Do you even know which baby that is?"

"They're identical."

"You've got Carey," Tracy says. She starts back into the kitchen with Mara, throwing Kent one last glare. "Don't take too long, we're doing presents in a bit."

He makes a face behind her back before ducking through the sliding glass door (pulling it all the way shut behind him because he’s had plenty of private conversations overheard by his nosy sisters and he does not need that today), then tucks his phone up against his ear and listens to it ring.

He waits for just a second before Jack answers.

"Hey," Jack says. "I just called you."

"That's why I'm calling you back."

"Oh, I thought I'd missed you. Can you talk?"

The last time they talked like this, Jack informed Kent of his imminent retirement. Kent's not quite sure what other breaking news could be thrown on him; maybe Jack literally just wants to talk.

"I had an idea," Jack starts, of course, because he never just wants to talk. "Let me know what you think."

"Is this, like, a business proposal or something? You can tell Mashkov I'm not investing in anything weird again."

"No, it's just a thought I had."

Kent shuffles across the patio, baby clung to his shoulder, and waits for Jack to elaborate.

"There were so many people at my retirement party. I feel like I barely got to see you."

"Oh, well, I-"

"So I thought you could come up here, you know, for the holiday? For your birthday."

Kent pauses. "What?"

"It would be just us."

"Oh," Kent says, blinking. "Uh, I don't know about that."

There’s a stiff second of silence before Jack responds. "Oh. Well, that’s okay."

"No, I mean," Kent exclaims, bouncing the baby. "I just meant that I can't. I'm in Cleveland all this week."

A pause, then Jack asks, "Who lives in Cleveland?"

"Huh?"

"Which sister lives in Cleveland? Tracy or Rebecca?"

"God," Kent mutters. "I forget that you know everything about me."

"Ha, not everything."

Kent clears his throat. "I'm staying with Tracy for the 4th. And it's my nephew's birthday today."

"Oh, tell him I said happy birthday."

"He hates hockey."

"Oh."

"I'll tell him that Wolverine called."

"...which one is-"

Kent takes the phone away from his ear so he doesn't have to listen to the absurd question that Jack asks next.

"Anyways," Jack is saying when Kent tunes back in, "if you want to get together this summer, let me know. I guess this was kind of short notice, but you know, you're always welcome in Boston."

Kent smirks to himself. "You sound bored."

"I'm not bored," Jack protests immediately, but he fails to hide the defensive note in his voice. "It's just taking some time to adjust to retirement."

"I knew you wouldn't like it."

"Maybe not at first," Jack says,  and he sighs then, like he’s actually admitting his defeat. Kent pictures him rubbing his furrowed brow, collapsing on the couch alone in his living room. "But I'll find something to do."

"Of course you will."

"If you were here, I'd definitely have something to do."

Kent pauses. "What?"

"We could go out."

"...go out?"

"There's a new tapas place downtown. I'd love to take you for dinner."

Kent stands very still. "...uh-huh."

Carey gurgles then, bobbing her head up and down on Kent’s shoulder, and he startles back to life; he starts a pace back and forth across the patio, bouncing the baby in his arm as he tries to catch his breath.

"Was that a baby?" Jack asks.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm holding one of Tracy's kids."

"How many kids does Tracy have?"

"I know, right?"

"No, I'm just asking," Jack says. "I thought she only had one."

"She just had twins," Kent says. Carey ducks her head against his chin and babbles. "She keeps trying to blame everyone else, but she's a triplet so I'm not sure what she was expecting."

"She got lucky with Sean, I guess."

"Sean's a fucking diamond," Kent exclaims. "And now he's going to be terrorized forever by his sisters."

He can hear Jack smiling. "You're projecting."

"I'm sympathizing," Kent insists. "You're an only child, you wouldn't understand."

"I guess not," Jack says. "Though I do know what it's like to put up with you."

"Put up with me? I'm a delight to be around."

"A delight that barely showed his face at my retirement party?"

Kent opens his mouth to defend himself, then purses his lips shut in defeat. "I was there."

"I think we exchanged ten words all night."

"You wanted me to spend more time congratulating you? Good job, Jack, you’re old now."

"I wanted to spend time with you," Jack says. "We’ve barely seen each other these last few years."

Kent's quiet for a moment, turning that over in his mind.  He doesn’t know what Jack’s doing, why he’s being so friendly all of a sudden, when the reason they haven’t seen much of each other in the last few years is because- well, it’s just because of who they are, who they’ve been. They’d reconnected after everything, after they both came out, after they’d both planted footholds in their careers, and that had seemed like it was enough to Kent.

Not that he’d never wanted more, though. There were times, especially when he hit 30, especially when everyone else seemed to retreat from his life, that he thought he should call Jack. He should text, at least. They’d been through a lot together, and there were days when it seemed like Jack would be the only person to understand.

But Kent had been busy. Jack had been busy. Neither of them had called, and their friendship extended only as far as the public dinners on roadies, on the drinks after All-Stars, on the occasional Twitter chirp once Jack had figured out how to use it.

"I didn't know that," Kent says after a few seconds of silence. "That you- I mean, that you would've wanted to, you know... hang out."

"Of course I did," Jack says. "I still do, Kenny."

Kent shifts the baby in his arms. "Uh, well, some other time then."

"Some other time," Jack agrees. 

"I should go," Kent says suddenly, glancing back to the house. Tracy is standing in the kitchen window giving him a finger. "Tracy's spent all morning decorating Sean's cake, so I need to be there when he destroys her hard work."

"Are you getting a birthday cake too?"

"I think I'm getting a birthday picnic," Kent says. "Or, you know, whatever's already happening on the 4th."

"Nothing special for the triplets?"

"Everyone stops caring once there are grandkids to dote on," Kent says. "Rebecca's not even here. She had an audition for  _Cats_  or something."

"I've been thinking about it."

Kent pauses. "About  _Cats_?"

Jack laughs. "No, sorry. I mean, having a family. Do you think about it Kenny?" 

The way Jack breathes those words, soft and light, like he’s stretching, raising his arms over his head so just a hint of toned skin peeks out from above his waistband-

God, Kent can’t do this. He’s got- well, he’s got nothing, is the problem, but he can’t think about Jack shirtless, sighing, murmuring into the phone as he idles with Kent, their words getting softer and sweeter until their breaths just melt together and-

Carey starts crying.

"I have to go," Kent exclaims.

"Uncle duties?"

"Yeah," Kent says. "Uh, sure. I've gotta- thanks for the invite. I'll, uh, text you or whatever, if I'm free. I'm gonna hang up now."

"Bye, Kent."

"Bye," Kent wheezes, then shuts his phone off and stumbles back into the air conditioned house. 

Tracy all but throws the other baby at him.

"Hot out there?" she drawls, smirking.

Kent clutches the infants. "Shut up."

 

\---

 

Jack would like to take him to dinner. 

No, Jack would love to take him to dinner.

Kent goes home for pre-season training and tries not to think about it. 

 

\---

 

"Christ," he yells when he opens Instagram. "Who- what- fuck!"

_Out_  has been on Jack's ass for years. They were on Kent's too, for a while, at least until his publicist mage it very clear that he wanted to do nothing except be gay in the privacy of his own home, and maybe a restaurant too, if any of their staff writers were hot and willing to take him out. They stopped calling after that.

But they've been hunting Jack Zimmermann for the last fifteen years, and it looks like their efforts have finally paid off. In a big (thick), big (shirtless), big (more naked than his ESPN Body Issue, which is saying something, because Zimms managed to give Seguin a run for his money on that one) way. 

There's an article linked in the caption, but who the fuck is going to read a 2000 word thinkpiece on internalized homophobia in male sports when there's a god damn boudoir shot of Jack Zimmermann's ass currently trending on all social media platforms?

(Kent will, later, in his dark kitchen at 2 a.m. and will not admit doing so when Rebecca calls him the next night, because she's always tried too hard to be a good ally and he'll infuriate her at every opportunity he gets.)

"God," Kent sputters, holding the phone away from his face. "Who let him do this?!"

He lays on his couch and stares at the photo for a few more minutes, dumbfounded; then he brings his phone very, very close and nearly goes blind trying to decipher the millions of pixels that make up Jack's hipbones.

Kaboodle breaks something in the other room, and Kent snaps upright.

"Cat!" he yells, because he gave his cat a stupid name that’s too long to shout every time he’s in trouble. There’s silence in the other room after that, and while that’s not really a good sign with a cat, it’s better than the sound of Kaboodle pushing random, breakable things off counters.

Kent drops back onto the couch and stares at the black and white photo.

Jack is-

Jack’s always been hot. Jack was hot when he was fifteen and still losing his baby fat. Jack was hot when Kent busted a Samwell kegster and pushed him against the wall of his dorm room. Jack was hot ten years later when he teased Kent about how desperate he was and Kent threw a drink at him. Jack in a wet t-shirt was the hottest of them all.

But this.

This is…

Kent won’t say it out loud, because he doesn’t have to, but half the comments he scrolls through on Twitter are college girls and horny thinks shouting, "DADDY UNF PLS GET IN ME!"

Jack is mature now. He’s toned and he’s chiseled and he’s everything that he was years ago, except he’s a lot more than that now. He’s full, he’s a little grizzled, and god damn if he doesn’t have the perfect amount of bristling chest hair for Kent to run his hands through.

That’s crazy, of course. Kent’s never going to touch those pecs again.

He is, however, going to swear at himself while he fumbles to get a hand down his pants, because if there’s one thing he knows about adulthood, it’s that everyone is masturbating all the time, so it’s definitely not weird to jerk off on his living room sofa to a mostly nude picture of his good friend and teen flame.

Kent comes into his hand with the taste of Jack’s skin on his tongue.

Then it’s incredibly weird, like, Jesus, fuck, why did God just let him do that, he’s almost forty, he can’t just sit around and jerk off to pictures like a horny teenager.

Then Kaboodle breaks something else, and there’s nothing left for Kent to do except lock the cat in the laundry room and douse himself in a cold shower, staring desperately at the tile wall.

Fuck.

 

\---

 

**Text from Jack**  
Do you want to come?

**Text from Kent**  
??????????  
WHAT are you asking

**Text from Jack**  
Sorry I thought I sent a link, let me try again

**Text from Jack  
**[File is Unavailable]

**Text from Kent**  
It’s unavailable

**Text from Jack**  
What?

**Text from Kent**  
I can’t read it  
Just tell me

 **Text from Jack**  
The NHL alumni banquet is in Vegas this year  
I thought you might want to go with me?

**Text from Kent**  
I’m not an alumni

**Text from Jack  
**You should meet some of the guys

**Text from Kent**  
I know pretty much everyone

**Text from Jack**  
We’ll have fun  
It’s Vegas so you know

**Text from Kent**  
What the hell does that mean?

**Text from Jack**  
Not an insult, just saying that it will probably be more lively than usual

**Text from Kent**  
I might have a game

**Text from Jack  
**I already checked the schedule  
Unless you need more than a day to recover from your game in Denver?  
:)

**Text from Kent  
**Is that a text emoji?? Jack what year is it

**Text from Jack**  
Come with me?  
Don’t let me be lonely

**Text from Kent**  
I guarantee you’ll know literally every single person there

**Text from Jack**  
Please?

**Text from Kent**  
Fine but if anyone asks me about retirement I’m getting wasted

 

\---

 

Kent becomes aware, sometime after midnight, that Jack is holding his hand.

It turns out that NHL alumni are more occupied with complaining about their knees than they are with pestering Kent about his own imminent retirement. Kent gets drunk anyways; not a second goes by before there’s another glass pressed into his hand. Contrary to popular opinion, he’s not a delightedly outgoing extrovert, so if he has to spend his night mingling, he’s going to do it drunk.

It’s not a banquet, really, so much as a mixer. The hotel ballroom is packed with legends, and Kent lets Jack drag him around (show him off, is what it feels like) for most of the night. At some point, Jack’s fingers land on his shoulder. A bit later, Kent realizes that he’s leaning into Jack’s hand on his back.

Then, sometime after that, they’re holding hands.

"How about a nightcap?" Jack asks when they finally meander out of the ballroom.

In the bright lights of the hotel lobby, Kent can see now that Jack’s just as tipsy as him, his faced flushed, his hair mussed. They must look like an absolute mess, coming down from several glasses of champagne, but the lobby’s empty. It’s just them and a bellboy who is being very polite by not watching the way they touch each other.

"How long is this night going to be?" Kent snorts. He leans into Jack’s touch- the arm on his back, the fingers curling around his waist- and sighs. "If we keep drinking like we’re eighteen, we’re going to end up passed out in a bar somewhere."

"Or on the bathroom floor?" Jack says in his ear.

"Christ," Kent mutters, but he laughs anyways. "You can't joke about things like that." 

They’ve wandered towards the elevators, and Jack reaches for the up button, glancing at Kent.

“My room?” he asks. “Just one drink.”

Kent raises an eyebrow. “I live ten minutes away.”

“I’m staying here,” Jack says. “In this hotel.”

“You better have something strong up there.”

“I think there’s some brandy in the minibar,” Jack muses, holding Kent closer.

“Hm,” Kent says. “Let’s find out.”

Kent thinks, on the last sip of champagne in his brain, that they’re quite good for not jumping on each other in the elevator.

Then the door to Jack’s hotel room door closes behind them, and suddenly Kent is in Jack’s arms, pressed against the wall, the heat of Jack’s lips pulsing through him, and in the split second while Jack is kissing him, Kent sobers up.

“Wait,” he exclaims,” finding his grip on Jack’s shoulders. He pushes him away and holds him there, an arms’ length from Kent’s grasp, and he stares at Jack with his breathless, kissed lips, trying to catch a breath to say what he means.

“Sorry,” Jack says first, stepping back. “Do you not-“

“Of course I want this,” Kent says. His hands fall to his sides as Jack steps out of reach. “But I- Jesus, Jack, we’re too old to be playing games like this.”

Jack furrows his brow. “I’m not playing games.”

“Then what are you doing?” Kent asks, brow furrowed. “You can’t just- kiss me. I’m not seventeen. I’m not going to wake up hungover tomorrow and pretend that this never happened.”

“I know-“

“That’s not my life anymore. I haven’t even fucked Swoops in, like, eight years-“

“You haven’t what?”

“We’re not kids anymore,” Kent exclaims, his face flushed with heat. He wipes his mouth, unconsciously, then rubs his hand on his shirt as if to undo the gesture. “Look, I’m- I’m into this, Jack, I’m into you, but I’m not looking to just fool around with anyone, not even you.”

Jack stares at him for a second. He seems surprised, genuinely, like he really thought he could just plant one on Kent and it’d all be fine. Of course he did; he’s Jack.

“It’s not like that, Kent,” Jack says then, softly. He moves back towards Kent, reaching for his hands, and Kent lets him take them in silence. “I’m not trying to fool around with you.”

His touch flashes heat across Kent’s skin, and Kent stares at him.

“Then what?” he asks. “What is this, Jack?”

Jack is quiet for another moment. He reads Kent’s face, bright eyes examining in silence, and Kent can barely stand it. Jack’s lips part slightly, and he’s soft for another second before he speaks again.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Kent’s heart thunders in his chest. Out of anger, or fear, or something else entirely.

“But,” Jack continues then, his hands sliding up Kent’s arms, “I’m not playing a game with you. I’m not trying to fool around with you. I want you, Kent. I have for a long time.”

His collarbones are visible beneath his open shirt collar, and Kent glances at his bare skin for a second, the temptation waiting there, before he glances back to Jack.

“So what?” he asks, brow furrowed. “You want to, like- date?”

“Is that what you want?” Jack asks.

“What I want,” Kent exclaims, letting out a huff. “What I want, Jack, is something that actually lasts. Something that’s not going to sneak out in the morning and leave me alone. Something to hold onto when-“

He cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath, then continues with a shaky voice, “Something to have when I retire. Something to be there for me, because I’m not going to have anything else.”

The light in Jack’s eyes shifts. “You know that’s not true.”

“It is,” Kent says.

He pulls his arms out of Jack’s grasp; not sharply, and he pauses for a second before laying his hands back on Jack’s shoulders, the firm muscle warm beneath his touch.

“I’ve played hockey for twenty years,” Kent says, “and god, they’ve been the best years of my life. I wouldn’t give them up for anything. But what do I have when that all goes away? When my knees finally give out and I can barely skate anymore? What do I have then, Jack?”

“You have Kaboodle,” Jack says instantly, literally.

Kent sighs. “That stupid fucking cat. He tried to eat a condom last week.”

“You just leave your condoms out, eh, Parse? I thought you didn’t live like that anymore.”

“Shut up,” Kent mutters, looking up at him. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“Kent, you know you’re not alone.”

Jack reaches for Kent hesitantly, fingers grazing the sides of his arms; when Kent makes no move to push him away again, Jack goes all in, clutching Kent by his elbows and dipping their foreheads together.

“You have your family,” he whispers. “You’ll still have your team, even after you leave.”

“They’re going to retire my number,” Kent says, and he can’t help it when his voice breaks.

“You’ll always be their captain,” Jack says. “Things will be different, trust me. But it’s not all bad.”

Kent steadies his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs. “I promise, and-“

He hesitates for a moment, and Kent pulls back to stare into his shimmering eyes.

“You know,” Jack says, holding him, “you have this.”

Kent tries to catch his breath. “What is this, Jack?”

“It’s us,” Jack says. “It’s always been us.”

Kent looks at him, the man he’s become, the boy he’s always been. Then he grabs him by the collar of his shirt and kisses him.

It’s hot and wet, and that’s when Kent realizes he’s crying. He pulls away after a moment, running a hand across the stubble on Jack’s jaw, and lets Jack press their foreheads together again. They stand in silence for a moment, breathing against each other, Kent’s hand wrapped in Jack’s shirt.

Kent can’t help it. He leans in again, and when he pulls back this time, the heat of Jack’s kiss lingering on his lips, he looks Jack in the eye and mutters, “We’re gonna have sex now, right?”

Jack laughs against his skin. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I was going for.”

“Christ,” Kent mutters, scrambling to tear Jack’s shirt off. “I thought I’d never see your thighs again.”

Jack catches Kent’s lips once more, pressing their bodies together. “You’ll see a lot more than that tonight.”

 

\---

 

It takes time.

Kent needs it, after all these years. They've been friends for a while, but old friends, seeing each other infrequently, skirting around things unsaid. 

It's taken them a while to get here. Still, Kent wouldn't give this up for anything.

But he needs some time. He needs to take this slow. He meant it when he said he wasn't looking for just anything. He's on his way out. He's old, he's sore, and he's had his fifteen minutes. There are other players waiting to take his spot. Better players, and it's what his team deserves.

So having Jack, on top of everything else, on top of retirement, on top of his agent giving him that look, his publicist pushing him towards long-term brand deals, his mother asking wistfully if he's going to live in Vegas forever...

Kent needs time, and Jack lets him have it.

Kent cancels on him for Halloween. He has games all through the week of Thanksgiving, and he has to go home after that, give his mother some peace of mind before the holidays. There's a brief night in Boston after Kent plays the Bruins, and Jack makes it out to the game. He's adored by fans, applauded by commentators, saluted by his old team. It sends Kent over the edge, and when the Aces lose (4-0, a slaughter that has Kent's agent texting him gentle reminders), he's too tired to think about hockey, about Jack, about the future. He falls asleep on Jack's couch after a late take-out dinner and leaves in the morning without saying goodbye. 

Jack keeps giving him time.

Kent knows, inside, that he's being an asshole. This is exactly what he told Jack he didn't want: someone who isn't there in the morning, who ignores phone calls, who's more afraid of commitment than anything else. He knows that Jack knows too, and he knows that Jack's too good to point it out, or else this would have been over from the start.

He wants this. He wants Jack. He wants something more.

But right now, he still has hockey. It's all he has, really, all he's had for the last twenty years, and he's not ready to make his peace.

He realizes that's going to be hard to do when his doctor tells him that he needs to reduce his stress unless he wants hypertension to gift him a stroke on his fortieth birthday.

So Kent tosses out all party invitations and settles in for a quiet Christmas, alone. 

 

\---

 

He forgets the fucking cranberry sauce. 

Vegas never turns off, not even past nine on Christmas Eve, so Kent drags himself to the closest grocery store for a can of cranberry sauce to dump onto the potatoes he's probably going to oversalt and the turkey he's probably going to burn. It's a miracle that he's cooking at all, honestly, so he's content with not setting his expectations very high.

But his expectations do not include running into Jack Zimmermann in the perishable goods. 

"What the fuck?" Kent exclaims, because he comes skidding around a corner and Jack is standing right there, staring intently at the shelves of cranberry sauce. 

Jack starts, glancing up at him. "Oh. Kent."

"Oh?" Kent echoes, furrowing his brow. "What- what are you doing in my grocery store?"

Jack holds up a small glass jar. 

"I forgot cranberry sauce," he says.

"What the fuck?" Kent repeats.

"Kenny-"

"Don't Kenny me," Kent hisses. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

"I came to see you," Jack says, setting the jar back on the shelf. "I knew that-"

Oh, Kent gets it. He didn't actually forget cranberry sauce, he's just an idiot who thought a romcom ruse would work on Kent. 

"Shouldn't you be in Boston?" Kent asks, rubbing his forehead. "Or Montreal?"

"My parents are on a cruise. And-"

"And what? I'm the only other person you know?"

"I knew you'd be alone," is what Jack says.

Kent drops his hand, pursing his lips. "Thanks. That makes me feel good. And on Christmas Eve, too."

"You've been avoiding me," Jack says. 

"I'm not-"

"I know you said you needed some space," Jack continues, lowering his voice. "But that was almost two months ago, Kent, and we've barely talked."

"So you followed me to the grocery store?" Kent sputters.

"Kent," Jack says, and that's when he knows he's in trouble. The way Jack's brow furrows the tiniest bit, the way his jaw clenches just before he relaxes and his eyes lighten again.

"I came to see you," Jack says. "To spend time with you, since I knew you didn't have any plans for Christmas. I thought you'd want to see me."

"Were you going to show up at my door with that shit?" Kent asks, gesturing to the jarred cranberry sauce.

Jack frowns. "It's organic."

"Everyone knows the canned stuff is the best."

"Really?"

"It's classic."

"It's got rings."

"That's just the shape of the can."

Jack shakes his head. "I was looking for a bottle of wine or something. I didn't know if you were doing dinner, but I scouted some takeout places that are still open..."

Kent stares at him, the fluorescent lights of the grocery store blinking overhead. "Jack, it's Christmas Eve."

"...I know?"

"And you were just going to show up at my door?"

"Well."

"You were literally going to show up at my door with some grocery store wine and a bag of McDonald's?"

"Actually, there's a bahn mi place down the street-"

"I know the bahn mi place," Kent exclaims, cutting him off. "I'm the one who lives here." 

Jack says nothing, just looks at him. Kent almost expected him to feel embarrassed that he'd trotted all the way out to Vegas only to be found lurking in the local grocery store, plotting how to seduce Kent on Christmas Eve, but Jack's face remains blank. If anything, he looks a little bit smug.

Kent sighs. "You could have called, you know. I would've- I know I've been kind of AWOL about everything, but if you'd, you know, texted, I would have answered."

"Oh," Jack says. He pauses for a moment before a small smile creeps up on his face. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Oh my god," Kent mutters, burying his face in his hands.

"Look, Kent," Jack says, seriously, lowering his voice another touch. He steps forward then, moving silently, and when Kent glances up, he's standing there, just before Kent, staring down at him.

"I know the last year's been hard for you," Jack says, speaking softly. "I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble or if you've felt like I was expecting anything. I know this- us- probably hasn't made things easier for you.

"But," he continues, "I'm not sorry for how I feel about you, and you shouldn't be either."

Kent stares at him. "I'm not."

"And yet you've been avoiding me."

Kent takes a breath. "Fine. But not because I don't want this." 

Jack raises an eyebrow. "So, it's because...?"

"I have to retire," Kent blurts out, finally. "It's happening, for real, at the end of this season. I don't have a choice anymore. My doctor basically told me I'm going to kill myself if I keep playing hockey. So, I just..."

He trails off with a sigh, then runs a hand through his hair. "It just felt like I could hold onto everything for a little while longer. Like I didn't have to give it all up yet."

Jack studies his face for a quiet moment. "And I'm not a part of that?"

"You haven't been," Kent says, dropping his hand. It brushes, accidentally, against Jack's arm, and he holds it there for a moment, his fingers trailing over Jack's shoulder. "Being with you, it's- it means that I'm moving on to the next thing."

"The next thing after hockey," Jack finishes.

"And that means," Kent says, "that hockey is over." 

Jack looks at him with a gentle gaze, and in one silent movement, he leans forward and wraps his arms around Kent, pulling him into a warm embrace as he whispers in his ear.

"Moving on is hard," he murmurs. "But that doesn't mean it's the end." 

Kent grips at Jack's shirt, breathing hard, suddenly. They clutch their bodies together, saying nothing, just feeling the rhythm of breath between them as Kent's heart races, then eases, his fear putting itself to rest.

Kent becomes aware, then, that they're standing in the middle of a grocery store. 

"We should go," he mutters, pulling away.

"Oh, right," Jack says, stepping back. "Uh, your place?"

"My place," Kent says. He grabs Jack by the hand. "Let's get out of here."

They've almost made it out the door when Jack stops, suddenly, his shoes squeaking on the floor.

"Wait," he exclaims before he darts back into the aisles.

"Christ," Kent murmurs. "What now?"

He waits for just a moment before Jack appears at the register, pays for a single can of cranberry sauce, and rejoins Kent at the door.

"Can't forget this," he says, holding it up with a grin.

Kent wrinkles his nose. "You only got one?"

"How much cranberry sauce do you need?"

"Never mind," Kent sighs, tugging him out the door. The cool air brushes across them as they stumble into the parking lot, bumping shoulders and barely meeting each other's eyes. "We've got more important things to do tonight.

Jack stops to face him beneath a streetlamp. 

"Like what?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. There's a smirk hidden somewhere beneath those perfect pink lips.

Kent doesn't give him a chance to look any more smug before he reaches out to clutch the collar of Jack's jacket.

"Like this," he says.

He barely has to crook his neck at all when he kisses Jack, because Jack is already bending down. Their lips meet in perfect warmth beneath the lamplight, and it's then, in a parking lot on Christmas Eve, that Kent knows that, one day, everything will be alright. 


End file.
